


Alive

by gokkyun



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gokkyun/pseuds/gokkyun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldier: 76 needs to unlearn his weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Quickly written on paper but never written until now on computer, I bring you this piece of ... writing ... before I might write more R76 (fluff&angst) if I'm not too lazy or too busy to do it. 
> 
> Not sure if the M rating is justified, but here I am, not caring. Enjoy & comments/critique very much appreciated.
> 
> Also: writing Reaper's dialogue gives me a headache.

A night not unusual for the hunted vigilante known simply by the name of Soldier: 76 nears its end. A night that's filled with the smell of gunpowder and blood, the sound of guns and explosions wrapping around it. It is, however, an unusual night for the man beneath the mask and jacket should he decide to think back to who and how he used to be a couple of years back. He doesn't. He never does. Or at least that's what John Morrison tries to. 

Despite the heavy pulse rifle he carries in his hands and the hardened boots on his feet, Soldier: 76 moves quietly and swiftly through the late night's cover after yet another of his self-assigned missions. He enters and maneuvers through the mostly empty halls of the hotel he's been operating from for the past week, making sure upfront to not get caught by a security camera or any other unwanted attention his get up would surely cause. The bounty on his head had risen to a ridiculous sum after all, making him well-known even to civilians. 76 reaches the third floor and his room without much effort, remembering the suspicious look the receptionist had given him even in his casual clothes, aviators covering his eyes but not the prominent scars distorting his face. Shaking the thought off, Soldier: 76 now reaches for the keycard in the back pocket of his black trousers, opening the door with it which he then pushes open with his shoulder. A groan immediately follows, the pain rushing down his side reminding him just how badly the night went. 

Soldier: 76 is quick to close the door behind him with his foot, finally able to not give a rat's ass about any noises he creates. His gloved fingers touch along the wall, trying to find the light switch – he succeeds but asks himself who the hell still has light switches like these installed in goddamn 2077? Maybe he isn't as old as he likes to make himself think. 

The ceiling lamp complies and illuminates the fairly large room, shadows and dark corners lingering nevertheless. A breeze flows in from the open window and the vigilante sighs with soft relief of having survived another night, sitting down on the – in his opinion – oversized bed, laying down the pulse rifle he had stolen from Grand Mesa next to him. He's immediately greeted by his own reflection in that pesky floor mirror right across the bed, the wrinkles on his forehead becoming more distinguished as a frown settles on his face. The state he's in is worse than he thought, his jacket torn in several places just like his trousers, the white skin underneath it all visible in several places, partially covered by his own blood. Two of the spots are larger than the others; he recalls a graze shot and a rather deep knife cut. Wonderful. Fucking wonderful.

Running his gloved fingers over his forehead, 76 averts his gaze from the nasty picture presenting to him and stands back up. With care and precision he removes the mask and the visor keeping the face of John Morrison hidden to the public. As much as he loves this thing, he's happy to finally see his surroundings in normal colors, not shades of orange, tactical information gathering in his field of vision at the same time. Shrugging, Soldier: 76 drops the two pieces onto the bed as well, which is cluttered with weapons, clothing, ammunition and helix rocket cartridges anyways. 76, however, has no intention of cleaning up this mess until he leaves, barely able to sleep, let alone in a bed, paranoia like a drug to him. 

A breath that is supposed to help him come down from the night's events reminds 76 just how badly he needs the rest he won't grant himself, the simple motion causing his limbs to ache and burn, the adrenaline rummaging through his veins and body that kept him at bay mostly gone. Therefore cautious with his next movements, the man removes his gloves, followed by the jacket that displays the number that's dreaded by so many now. The tight black shirt he wears underneath follows short, all of it carelessly tossed onto the bed or maybe even the floor. Who cares? It's not like he's in the military or a supervised operation anymore, a drill sergeant about to kick his sorry ass. He internally laughs at his foolish thoughts as he steps in front of the mirror, his mood quickly changing, the corners of his scarred lips pulled downwards as he gazes upon the multiple places in which blood had oozed out of his body, now dried, clinging to his pale skin.

Another breath, deeper this time, leaves him as his rough fingertips cautiously start to trail along the scars that have gathered on his body over the years. They remind him what he's fighting for but also that he's still alive even though he shouldn't be. Not only because of the fact that John Morrison supposedly died but also because of what has happened in the past years. His personal vendetta, that's left a sour taste in his mouth and a stinging ache in his heart and after a night like this, without answers but with blood staining him, Jack, John, Soldier: 76, whoever he may be deep inside, is tired of this life. This life as a worldwide hunted vigilante, frustrated with everyone and everything but most of all his investigations that seem to lead his nowhere. The thought of hanging up his uniform, his torn jacket, is tempting, now more than ever, but it's unacceptable. 

Something else entirely catches Soldier: 76’s attention and makes him discard his thoughts immediately, instead causing a frown to cross his aged features, the mirror revealing an odd but by far not unfamiliar movement in the room's shadows. “What are you doing here?” he snarls, turning around in an instant, fast to move back over to the bed, to the security of the arsenal of weapons he has stacked there. Not that these would be of much use against the thing lurking in his shadows from time to time. He has tried. 

Said shadow turns into something akin to a dark and otherworldly mist 76 still can neither describe nor explain. It manifests into a solid form quickly, a form that seems to have slipped from a child's worst nightmare or a punk's wildest dream. A grim skull mask covers the face of someone dressed in black, hooded, a shotgun in each hand – claw – which are for once not pointed at someone or better yet shoved into 76's stomach or pressed to his temple. “I was in the vicinity,” the man – or whatever he may be now – answers. 

“Cut the bullshit,” 76 immediately hisses as reply, unmoving and entirely unimpressed. “You know damn well what I mean. A freak like you've become isn't just in the vicinity. Several times. To intervene with my missions. Coming here to top it all off. Too many coincidences on my watch.”

“Oh, missions?” Reaper teases, his eerie voice underlined by a condescending tone. “Is that what you call your little war now? Your attacks on Los Muertos or the raids on whatever authorities you see fit? Right. Maybe you should tell that to the people raising your bounty higher and higher every week.” The wraith-like man suddenly moves, walks like an ordinary human should, 76 watching the heavy steps closely, black robe billowing behind Reaper's steps, who drops his shotguns onto the bed. A silent affirmation that he isn't here to start trouble. At least not in the violent way.

Despite the effort of staying civilized from the other's side, Soldier: 76 snorts. “I told you to cut the bullshit. I may be old but not blind or better yet – dumb. I've seen the pale and deceased bodies around places I've been to or investigated. They were drained of their life and I can assure you no other creature but you leaves this kind of … goddamn perversion. Last time we've met I thought it to be a coincidence but it's happened far too often by now.”

Reaper tilts his head for a second there before a crude laughter echoes through the room. “You got me there with your deductive powers, little boyscout,” he rasps harshly as he steps forward, nearly closing the distance between them. “Do you think some of these would be simple scars or scratches if it weren't for me?” his voice sounds almost offended but 76 isn't sure if Reaper feels things like these anymore. A sudden shiver makes its way through the vigilante's body all of a sudden, the tip of one of Reaper's sharp metallic claws tracing along old and almost faded as well as fresh scars that paint 76's abdomen and chest. “I'm the one to grant you death, Jack, no one else, especially not this filth you chose to fight against in your adorable little war. This is how it should've been. How it will be. I've told you before, I want to keep the best for last and I will make damn sure your sorry ass will still be alive once I'm done with the long list of Overwatch.”

Soldier: 76 wrinkles his nose in disgust, his hand slapping the other's away, mildly surprise that he collides with it rather than passing through black smoke. “You are flattering yourself there, Reaper,” he spits, the other's alias like poison on his tongue as his steely gaze focuses on the menacing mask in front of him. “And don't you dare call me by that name – not you of all, who wanted Jack to die. But hey, you succeeded. In a way.”

“So quick to bite the hand that feeds you, as always.” Without any prior warning but with a rasp chuckle following his words, Reaper closes the remaining distance between his and 76's body, effectively forcing the vigilante to take a few steps back before ultimately hitting the wall behind him. 

76 wants to struggle against this whole situation, wants to get away from what he knows will one day be his downfall but he knows it's no use; he's let too much of his guard down already, hates himself for doing it time and time again. No one else makes him feel this vulnerable, both inside and outside. This husk of a man knows how to push his buttons, knows that he can easily overpower 76, had always been the stronger of the two, mentally and physically. “But seventy-six, no, Jack,” Reaper growls soon enough while being so close, so unbearably close. His claws reach towards himself this time, taking off the skull mask that hides the face of the man that supposedly died alongside John Morrison back on that dreadful day, “how is that I still hunger for you then?” 

Reaper's voice is but a mere whisper, deep and raw but less distorted, more human, more like – Reyes. Soldier: 76 feels himself grow even weaker than he already is and it doesn't help at all that he gazes into an actual face instead of a ridiculous mask, a face he wants to reach out for and has in the past decades, years, months, but he doesn't want to anymore. No matter how strongly he longs to do just that. It would be his undoing. Once again. But the temptation is far too present, far too real. After all, Gabriel's – Reaper's – visage is still his. It has spots of odd pigmentation that sometimes even appear to be rotten, that come and go as they please, but too many things are still the same. Things like the old scars across Reaper's cheek and nose, the magnificent dark eyes in which the young John Morrison would get lost in so easily and the rough beard, slightly untamed and now covered with single gray hairs that speak of age that shouldn't be there for a dead man walking. 

Thoughts flee and all is lost to sentimentality when Reaper's thumb and index finger cup 76's chin, claws uncharacteristically careful as he does, and the vigilante wants to flinch away so badly but his body won't listen, usually controlled muscles acting on their own. He searches for words but he can't find them under the pile of rubbish his thoughts have become and he blames his age and the fact that his only remotely positive physical contact is with this man – because getting stabbed and punched or beating people to a pulp with a piñata doesn't quite qualify as positive.

“Do me a favor and just – end it right here,” Soldier: 76 murmurs and his voice is so unsteady that it disgusts him, hands finally giving in and gingerly reaching out for Reaper's face; the skin there is cold and it surprises 76 every time even though he has felt this corruption before – but it's not what he remembers. He associates this face with Reyes, with memories of the warmth that emitted from him and his body, not with Reaper. At least the scars are still there, 76's thumb brushing over them as if he's trying to cling onto something left of unmistakably better times, something that reminds him that this is, indeed, what is left of Gabriel Reyes. The man he loved. Loves. He's too old and frustrated to debate whichever is correct. 

“Soon,” Reaper purrs and neither of them is sure if it's the bitter truth or an empty promise because the display of affection that follows the mercenary's words is hard to ignore, his lips eager to press against Soldier: 76’s. Their mouths immediately move against each other, an old but to them never forgotten dance that makes 76 close his eyes and give completely into the dark and cold forcing him into this damned wall. Nevertheless, it's an uninviting kiss, not tender and loving how they used to be when they were younger, how they will never be again, because nothing will get them back to normal in this twisted world, neither a kiss nor words. 

Reaper's tongue licks over the scar that crosses 76's mouth, whose teeth afterwards dig into the other's lower lip, neither of them letting up. They both want more and it's a maddening, intoxicating feeling, an unexplained desire that won't leave Soldier: 76 no matter how many years he has on his back but it reminds him that he's still John Morrison, that he's Jack, that he's still alive and somehow feels younger than he should with all the scars and bruises. And for a minute there it gets easier to make believe that the creature, the man he's kissing is still Gabriel Reyes, not Reaper. 

But the feeling won't last much longer, not today; he loses the feeling of Reaper's cheek against his fingertips, the other's lips fading into nothingness at the exact same moment. Opening his blue eyes to face the cruel reality once more reveals that Reaper has turned back into the odd mist 76 hates so much, watching with a tired but unsurprised gaze and yearning lips how it disappears through the window, like Reaper was never here to begin with, just a nightmare, a mistake. 

Unfortunately it's not that simple, a tingling feeling stuck on 76's lips and around his scars making this fact painfully obvious

– as well as the pair of shotguns left behind on 76’s bed. The vigilante scoffs, sitting down next to them before picking one of them up and examining it casually. “A terrorist and a litterer,” he jokes to himself but his voice isn't light, it's bitter. He's once more greeted by his reflection in the mirror and although he's tempted to shoot the damned thing, he doesn't. 

Soldier: 76 instead drops the shotgun next to its duplicate and buries his aged and flushed face in his hands. 

Can't they just fast forward through this damned charade?


End file.
